


With a Hole in My Heart

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Series: Coffee and Cigarettes [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur was afraid to give himself completely to Alfred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Hole in My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ September 18, 2010. 
> 
> The original prompt was for Arthur to prefer bottoming. Although not directly related to each other, this story does share parallels with "Coffee and Cigarettes". It's not necessary to read both, however.

  
When their relationship first began, Arthur told himself he wouldn’t let himself get too close, that he would remain in control of himself and the course of the relationship. And nothing Alfred did would disrupt that mindset. He, of course, did not discuss this with Alfred, because such insecurities and fears were best left unsaid, and Arthur didn’t know what would be worse: that Alfred should laugh and dismiss his fears, or that Alfred would be devastated. So it was far superior a path to let the boy remain in ignorance, to let him run up to Arthur after world meetings, acting as if they hadn’t seen each other all day. Alfred, far more than any person or nation he’d been with, was an eager partner. Eager, and surprisingly tender and timid when it came down to it.  
  
Whereas in the beginning Arthur guarded himself, Alfred threw himself right in, gave away himself. The bravado would chip away piece by piece, and as Arthur would thrust into Alfred, Alfred would whisper words that were perfectly gentle and achingly vanilla. It disarmed Arthur in such a way that he didn’t know what to do with himself, or with his partner.  
  
“You’re so brave,” Arthur had told him one day, as his fingers mapped Alfred’s face.  
  
Alfred had just looked at him, perplexed, and said, with no hint of joking or shame: “Why would I be scared if I’m with you?”  
  
And that had been that. It’d taken all of Arthur’s self-control not to break down into tears. But that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Arthur did not let himself go, even when Alfred demonstrated time and again that he himself had already fallen, had already attached himself to Arthur—hook, line, and sinker. But Alfred was freedom—when he did things, he did them completely. He was the endless sky, the shifting ocean, the birds that flew as they saw fit. Arthur, in comparison, felt completely anchored, completely stone-footed—sinking, sinking, sinking under everything, unable to break free. Completely and utterly terrified that the moment he let go was the moment it all ended.  
  
Bravery, courage—how easy it would be to just fall, and be caught again. Alfred loved him, he could see it in his eyes every time he woke up and Alfred was cuddled up next to him, or playing x-box in the bed but paused it so he could kiss Arthur good morning, or was just there, mapping his face or his hair with gentle shifting fingers. And his voice in the dim morning light, a soft, sweet honeyed voice soured only by morning breath and the prolonged absence of Arthur’s mouth. Alfred, over the course of knowing him, had become everything for Arthur, and it scared Arthur, made him fear for Alfred, for who wants such an expectation heaved onto his shoulders?  
  
But for all the little hugs, the sweet kisses, the quiet, bashful _I love you_ s, Arthur found himself steadily falling. He knew in his heart that he loved Alfred in turn, knew that Alfred’s affections were earnest and genuine, not created from a malicious joke, and he knew that, with no politics screened between them, if Alfred were to choose to leave him, it would not be through painful war or because of national goals—no, if Alfred were to leave him, it would be as simple as _I don’t love you anymore._  
  
So with an aching heart, the day Alfred came to visit him in London, still bright-eyed despite a seven hour flight across the Atlantic and smiling only at Arthur, Arthur cupped his cheeks and kissed him right in the airport. Alfred’s bags fell to the ground as Alfred scooped him up, clenching him tight, and kissing him as if he were starved for air. What Alfred lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm. And the boy had endless bounds of enthusiasm.  
  
Arthur would have gladly kept kissing Alfred, except someone had to drive the two of them back to Arthur’s home, with the creaky staircase and the abundant garden that Alfred always pretended was too girly for him to like.  
  
That marked the turning point. That night, instead of pushing Alfred to his back and driving in to him, he mounted Alfred and rode him. It’d been the first time for Alfred, who’d made far too many noises that Arthur quickly became addicted to. He took that small step, told himself he was still in control. Told himself he wasn’t that vulnerable, like this. Reminded himself it was _okay_ to be vulnerable, because Alfred wasn’t about to take advantage of him. The boy, despite everything, was too genuine, too heroic, too courteous to ever take advantage of anyone, especially Arthur—Arthur who, Alfred says, had always been the person most important to Alfred. Arthur, whom Alfred had loved for two hundred years, sometimes without even realizing it. And even knowing all that, just looking at Alfred’s face was enough for Arthur to know for certain that no matter what, Alfred would never willingly hurt him.  
  
So in the end, it was Arthur’s issues, not Alfred, never Alfred. But as the fear subsided, he recognized that he’d enjoyed it all. In his way, he’d given himself over to Alfred’s control. It was his way, for while he could see this as Alfred taking control of him, the opposite was never a means to control Alfred, merely to demonstrate to Alfred just how much he loved and wanted him, how much he wanted Alfred to feel good, to show him, without words, the way he felt. When he dominated Alfred, it was not as a means to control Alfred, but to take care of Alfred. Arthur knew, in his heart, that he would never _have_ Alfred again—and that did not cause him unhappiness.  
  
In the week that Alfred visited Arthur in London, they didn’t really have sex. They shared Arthur’s bed, legs curled together, Alfred’s chilled feet sliding up Arthur’s calves for some kind of warmth. They spent time together. But it wasn’t until the evening before Alfred was to leave for a ten o’ clock flight back to Washington that Alfred initiated the sex, and Arthur fell onto his back, pulling Alfred on top of him, letting the boy take control, to have him—and Arthur, for the first time in his entire existence, gave himself completely to another person. To Alfred. And Alfred loved him, though his movements were jerky at best, and painful at worst. But he moved as carefully as possible, caring for Arthur, enthusiastic to learn, to map every moment that Arthur enjoyed.  
  
And at first, Arthur believed he would hate it, hate the fact that his pleasure would be so dependent on another. He believed that it would be too painful, both physically and emotionally. He feared for the moment when there was nothing else to protect his heart from Alfred. But by letting go, by letting Alfred hold him close, he sealed that distance. And not only did the full trust make him feel good, having Alfred with him was even better. Love was not just about receiving, but giving as well—and on that last night, Arthur finally fully accepted Alfred’s love, and fully gave his in turn.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Hey, hon,” Alfred murmured when Arthur opened his eyes. Alfred was on his side, head held up by one hand, arm bent at the elbow.  
  
“Good morning,” Arthur said, a yawn working its way between the words.  
  
Alfred’s hand fell away and he flopped onto the mattress. Arthur sighed as the boy pulled Arthur into his arms.  
  
“Mmm, good morning,” Alfred said against his neck, and Arthur could feel the curve of his smile. Arthur nuzzled against him, nose in Alfred’s soft golden hair.  
  
Arthur had flown in the night before, and as was the case when one visited the other’s country, Arthur was staying in Alfred’s home for the week and a half he was there in the country. It’d been close to a month since they’d seen each other last, but aside from a flurry of kisses that lasted quite some time, Arthur had been too jetlagged the night before to do much of anything else other than kiss, then sleep.  
  
Morning now, Arthur still felt as bit groggy, but part of that came from waking up in a bed different from his own, but still just as familiar. Alfred held him until he felt a bit more awake, signaled by Arthur stroking the other nation’s hair with gentle, wakeful ease. Arthur kissed his forehead as Alfred slowly untangled himself from Arthur’s limbs. Smiling that dopey, lopsided smile of his, Arthur felt hopeless, felt himself smile back in that inexplicably love-struck way of his. If Alfred ever noticed how hopelessly Arthur loved him, he never let on, always seemed to brighten up whenever Arthur told him, as if every time it was a miraculous surprise that Alfred always needed to celebrate. Usually such a celebration consisted of Alfred kissing every available inch of Arthur’s skin, punctuated by a litany of frenzied _I love you, Arthur_ s. all of numerous pitches, and paces, and places—and it was enough to make Arthur’s chest ache. But a good ache, a familiar ache.  
  
He preferred it that way, with Alfred pushing him down, as he was now, kissing him and smiling at him as he peeled away the fabric of his clothes, stripped him and left him bare, for Alfred’s eyes only.  
  
“Missed you,” Alfred said as he kissed at Arthur’s neck, fingers pulling at his pajama bottoms.  
  
“I missed you, too,” Arthur replied, smiling.  
  
“Can I keep going, then?” Alfred asked—as if the answer could possibly be no, as if Arthur could possibly push Alfred away when he was all he could possibly want.  
  
Arthur nodded and closed his eyes, let Alfred kiss down his body and felt selfish—that he should be the one Alfred gave his love to, that he should have Alfred all to himself…  
  
That Alfred would want him…  
  
Arthur sighed, “I love you.”  
  
Alfred perked up, and sure enough—there was the way his eyes lit up, his face flushed with happiness. He pushed up and took Arthur’s mouth with his, mumbling out a quiet _I love you_ in reply, never once removing his mouth from Arthur’s.  
  
It was these moments that made Arthur sure that, yes, he would always give himself to Alfred, and he’d been a fool to worry, a fool to feel that icy grip of hesitation. There was no hesitation now—he would always think of Alfred, the first thing he thought of when he woke in the morning, and the last before he slept. When he went away, Alfred took Arthur’s heart with him. And maybe, once, that would have scared him. But here it only made his stomach flop, and his hold on Alfred all the tighter.  
  
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Alfred said, as he always said just before he smeared the lube across his fingers and prepared Arthur.  
  
Arthur nodded, sighed as he pulled Alfred’s shirt off from his body, tossing it aside as Alfred rubbed his hands together, spreading the lube to coat his fingers quite liberally. One hand gripped Arthur’s hip while the other one pushed between Arthur’s legs. Arthur spread them as a clumsy finger pressed to the tight ring of muscles and then slipped inside. Arthur bit back a small cry, his body tight and Alfred slipping inside him up to the knuckle. He breathed out through his nose, jaw clenched, as Alfred slipped in another finger.  
  
Alfred did his best, but he was still clumsy, still inexperienced. What he knew now he’d learned from observation of the few times Arthur had prepared Alfred—and also porn. And if there was one thing porn was not good for, it was being a teacher of such things. But Arthur bit his tongue, let Alfred do as he should—the more he did it, the more confident he became, and that was what was important.  
  
Alfred, as always, pulled his fingers away before Arthur was properly stretched, but since he rubbed the lube over his cock, it was never too bad. Alfred pushed into him and Arthur’s body tensed up from the pain of Alfred’s cockhead pushing inside him. Arthur always focused on Alfred’s face, tensed in determination, face closed off, jaw clenched, biting his lip. Arthur stroked his face, watched Alfred’s eyes flicker back into reality, looking at Arthur. Arthur smiled and Alfred kissed his fingertips as he pushed into Arthur until he was seated quite snuggly.  
  
“Alfred…” Arthur breathed, body still tensed. This was not the moment he loved, but Alfred’s face was worth it, worth waiting until he could relax—Alfred was not the best partner Arthur had ever had, but he was the one Arthur cared for the most, the only one who could see Arthur so vulnerable, even if the boy didn’t realize that to be the case.  
  
Today, though—today did not go as it was meant to. As Alfred thrust into him and Arthur waited for the moment the pain evaporated into pleasure, he felt a whimper bubbling in the back of his throat. He tried to contain it, tried to push it away, but he couldn’t.  
  
“Fuck,” he hissed out, a small whimper.  
  
Alfred froze instantly. “Arthur?”  
  
Arthur shook his head, rolled his hips. “Don’t you—don’t you fucking stop now.”  
  
“Huh? But I—”  
  
“I love the way you move,” Arthur hissed. “Don’t stop—keep going. Fucking move.”  
  
Alfred stared at him, bit his lip—it’d been the first time Arthur had ever been commanding during sex, ever said anything other than Alfred’s name, or moaning. But he listened—and he did not stop. But there was something different in his eyes, something thoughtful.  
  
Once they were finished, slumped against one another, sated, Alfred still looked thoughtful.  
  
Arthur stroked his face. “What is it, darling?”  
  
“Nothing,” Alfred said, looking embarrassed now. He coughed, discreetly, and snuggled up close to Arthur, nosing at his ear and into his hair, letting out a quiet sigh. “Damn, you’re hot.”  
  
“Oh, hush.” Arthur felt his face turn red.  
  
Alfred curled closer to him, slid one leg over Arthur’s hip and kept them pressed together. Alfred nuzzled against his neck in a way that was nothing but purely affectionate and it made Arthur’s face color even further. Tentatively, stoically, he nuzzled back, kissing at Alfred’s temple with ridiculous tenderness he never believed he could be capable of again.  
  
“If there’s something on your mind,” Arthur murmured quietly in Alfred’s ear, “you should say so, my dear lad.”  
  
Alfred shook his head, and bit at his lip. “It’s kinda embarrassing.”  
  
“I promise not to laugh?” Arthur asked.  
  
Alfred chewed on the inside of his cheek, sighed, and nuzzled into Arthur, burying his face in his neck. He stayed like that, and occasionally placed a tiny kiss (and it tickled, a bit, but it was also a nice, familiar movement). Alfred stayed like that, long enough that Arthur was fairly certain Alfred was either going to avoid answering or he was going to just fall asleep and forget about it.  
  
But then, unexpectedly, Alfred said, “I like it when you talk dirty to me.”  
  
“Huh?” was Arthur’s intelligent response.  
  
“When I stopped—I’d thought I’d hurt you. I liked it when you were all demanding. And stuff.”  
  
Arthur pulled back to stare at Alfred, but Alfred was not looking at him. His gaze was somewhere off into the middle distance, his cheeks the brightest red he’d ever seen them.  
  
“That was hardly taking dirty,” Arthur decided on.  
  
“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” the boy said with a pout.  
  
Arthur smiled and stroked his knuckles against Alfred’s cheek. “I’m not.”  
  
Alfred grunted, still pouting and blushing. Arthur couldn’t help but smile as he leaned down, kissing at his forehead.  
  
“I’m not sure if I’d pegged you the kind to like that kind of thing,” Arthur admitted.  
  
Alfred shrugged one shoulder, eyelids fluttering when Arthur kissed his forehead again, lower this time, closer to his nose. “It just… I dunno. I like it. You used to get really pissed off at me and stuff before we… um, got together. But after that, you kind of—I dunno. Got quiet.”  
  
Arthur froze.  
  
But Alfred didn’t seem to notice, as he leaned up and met Arthur’s slackened mouth. He kissed him for a moment before pulling away, giving him that shaky smile of his that Arthur secretly adored. “You don’t usually say anything when we sleep together. But I like to know how you feel—seems more honest that way.”  
  
Arthur swallowed the thick lump lodged in his throat, and settled back down to Alfred’s side, pressing a haphazard kiss to his throat, feeling his racing pulse—was he nervous?—and feeling himself relaxing, despite everything. Despite everything, he felt safe and at peace when he was with Alfred. He wasn’t sure when that became a reality, but it was what it was.  
  
“… I’ll remember that for next time,” Arthur finally said.  
  
And Alfred just beamed.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
It’d been the first time their strictly vanilla sex had been anything other than such. And soon it began to appear Arthur didn’t talk dirty to Alfred every time, only occasionally, so it wouldn’t become the norm—so the novelty would not wear off. Some of the things Arthur said made Alfred blush and fumble, and Arthur took pride in being able to do so, strived to do so.  
  
And this way, Arthur could channel any pain he felt into words, instead of leaving it tensed throughout his body. He thrilled in watching Alfred almost lose control, the way his thrusts would rock Arthur’s body just a little bit harder, when Arthur said the right things. Alfred oftentimes resisted it, tried to keep his body in check—he tried so hard to make sure Arthur was not in pain. As time went on, the boy became less awkward, though still remained clumsy.  
  
But eventually, Alfred realized he, rather consistently, hurt Arthur during sex. For the months they were together, Arthur had been able to hide it, and when the pain became too much at times, Arthur would just push Alfred back and straddle him, riding him until the pain subsided and he could just focus on the way Alfred’s face continually shifted and tensed in pleasure.  
  
All things considered, Arthur was fairly pleased with the way he could hide it from Alfred for so long without him ever noticing. Partially it was just because Alfred was unobservant of such things, and especially during sex, when Arthur, at this point, knew all the ways to drive Alfred wild. But all things had to come to an end, and perhaps Arthur had written off Alfred’s observations, especially when it came to someone like Arthur, someone he loved. He’d watched the way Arthur tensed up for months, and, finally, stopped:  
  
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice breathless, his eyes wide.  
  
“Who said you should stop?” Arthur snapped.  
  
“Arthur. Am I hurting you?” Alfred stared at him with such intensity that Arthur fumbled, lost his footing in the foundation of his control. He could feel it slowly slip away, feel his body shake for half a moment. Alfred continued to stare at him, unrelenting.  
  
Finally, Arthur had to slant his eyes away. “… It’s fine.”  
  
The look Alfred gave him was heartbreaking—he was stricken, completely beside himself.  
  
“You have to _tell_ me these things! How can I make it feel good if all I do is hurt you?”  
  
“It goes away eventually—”  
  
“ _‘Eventually’?_ You mean this has happened before?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“Arthur!” Alfred reeled back, and the sudden loss of warmth, the sudden loss of having Alfred in him and over him and with him was so completely jarring that Arthur sat up, trying to pull Alfred back to him. But Alfred grabbed his wrists, and glared at him, his expression still completely devastated and hurt. “ _Arthur_!”  
  
Arthur cringed. “I didn’t want to worry you.”  
  
“Idiot!” Alfred shouted. He shook Arthur’s wrists. “How am I supposed to make you feel good if you’re hurt? Of course I’d worry, no matter what— _Arthur_! I can’t believe you!”  
  
Arthur looked away.  
  
Alfred grasped his chin and forced him to look again. “From now on, tell me if I’m doing something wrong. Teach me so I can be the best. Okay?”  
  
“Alfred…”  
  
“ _Okay_?”  
  
“… Okay.”  
  
And thus began Alfred’s reeducation, when it came to sexual prowess. At first Arthur took it slow, not wishing to bruise Alfred’s ego. But once the floodgates were open, Arthur had to let it all out—  
  
Alfred took it rather well, even asked questions.  
  
At one point he’d even asked, “Do you want to top from now on?”  
  
Arthur jolted at the question—it’d been one he’d wondered at before, why it was he didn’t take over again. Didn’t regain some control of himself. But despite the pleasure he received from the dominate positions, despite knowing that Alfred was willing, for him—  
  
The true pleasure he felt was when Alfred was over him. Arthur couldn’t explain why, when Alfred lacked true experience, had only a bit of talent, and oftentimes hurt him or was clumsy or couldn’t adequately make Arthur come. But those things didn’t matter to Arthur, in the end. What mattered as not the act itself, but being there with Alfred—that was what caused him the most pleasure: that Alfred would want him, care for him, think of him. And when he got it right—he saw stars, he went to mush, he blacked out and awoke happily in Alfred’s arms.  
  
 _Alfred_ was what mattered.  
  
But since Arthur had no way to articulate that, he merely said, “There’s only one way you’ll learn and then you’ll make anyone’s heart go aflutter.”  
  
“Yours is the only one I care about.” Alfred said, without missing a moment, perfectly serious.  
  
Arthur didn’t say that his heart already did, every time.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Oh fuck—!” Arthur hissed, eyes clenching shut, “fuck fuck fuck.”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred panted, thrusting against him, “what do you need?”  
  
“Your—ah,” Arthur cried out as Alfred struck his prostate. “Your cock, always your cock—oh, _Alfred._ ”  
  
“Yeah, baby,” Alfred gasped, almost losing control as one particularly hard thrust rocked Arthur’s entire body. “I’m here, baby.”  
  
“You could—ah—stand to go a little faster, really.”  
  
Alfred obeyed him.  
  
“Harder!”  
  
Alfred obeyed him.  
  
“Yes, yes, yes—!”  
  
There’d been a time when the two of them had been quiet during sex—now that time was long past, and Arthur felt no restrain in saying when something was good, or something was bad.  
  
“Ugh—god—shouldn’t you be kissing me by now?”  
  
“Coming, babe,” Alfred said and pressed up close, holding Arthur’s ankle up in one hand as he captured Arthur’s chin in the other, pulling him up to kiss him, capturing his mouth and swallowing his moans and gasps and _yes, Alfred!_ s.  
  
His body responded to Alfred, let Alfred take him and have him—and he willingly gave himself over, delirious in love.


End file.
